


Rememberance Day

by Aautumnstyles



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Other, Panic Attacks, Rain, Sad, Truth, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 02:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2635319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aautumnstyles/pseuds/Aautumnstyles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all honesty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rememberance Day

It's the 9th of November. The second sunday. This is the day traditionally put aside to remember all those who have given their lives for the peace and freedom we enjoy today. On this day people across the nation pause to reflect on the sacrifices made by our brave Service men and women, hence the name : Rememberance Day. Or something like that, anyway. I'm out walking, on my way to my favorite place within this place I'm in. My free-space, where I can hide away in a safe corner with my mocha-frapp light - no cream on top, and peppermint syrup - and a good book.  
It's raining. It's *pouring*. My shoes are growing darker in colour from the water. It's running down my neck as well, soaking through my clothes. 

I don't care. 

I walk past the monument by the Evangelist-church of Boxmoor. The garden is full of browning flowers. They're dying. The cemetery is full of leaves, as well as the sidewalk. I kick at them while I walk. Daniel Powters stupid song whispers in the back of my mind "you kick up the leaves and the magic is lost..."  
People are gathering around the monument, laying down flowers in memory of the ones lost long ago. I can't help wondering what these people are *actually* thinking about. I highly doubt it's soliders dying in battle.

A more probable suggestion is that they're all applying the meaning of rememberance-day to their own lives. Their loved ones. Their lost. Using this day to spare the forgotten things some extra thought and care. That is, if we were to believe that people are that "deep". Some might simply be pondering what to eat for their sunday-roast. (A very common thing in this country, might I add.)

While I seriously doubt the actual devotion to this day of the people who've bothered to gather around this monument in the downpour, I still feel slightly inconciderate walking past them. I almost halt my steps to join them - but no. I'm going to my safe place. Call me a hypocrite - I might even be one - but I'm going there to remember. Like I do every day. Remember, in silence, and privacy. Alone. 

I get there, half past ten o'clock. I open the door and with a gush of warmth I'm inside. I place my usual order to King (coolest name ever. suits the guy.) and he asks if I want anything to eat? Fuck. No. I don't. 

I politely shake my head, and put on the most charming smile I can muster. He keeps going. 

"Gingerbread? A cookie? How about a waffle? I could warm it up for you?" 

I don't know how to say no. I don't understand why he is pushing me like this. I've allready declined, yes? Just as I feel my hands start to tremble - *aslways* so *weak* - Jake cuts through Kings endless suggestions with a sharp and aimed, 

"That'll be 3.40 £ for your drink, Curly."

King shuts his trap and looks at Jake with raised eyebrows. Jake is looking at me. I'm looking at King who seems a bit flustered. Then he says something along the lines of:

"Hey mate, I'm asking if she wants something else, here." 

Jake doesn't reply. He is still looking at me. This is getting weird. King waves a hand in front of Jakes face, repeating his former scentence. I jump a bit when Jake suddenly bursts out a :"Yeah, but she doesn't WANT it, okay?! She *never* gets anything to eat. You should know that by now!" 

Finally King is silent. 

And I am so grateful. 

Thank you Jake. You just saved my day, I think. 

I press out a,

"That's kind of accurate, actually..." (because it's true, I never eat.) 

Jake says "I know." While King says "You should really get something to eat, darling." 

Somehow I don't think he's trying to sell me something. 

Jake is glaring at him now. I shoot him a little grin, private, and pay for my drink. Finally I can escape to my usual seat at the window.  
I take a moment to look out on the street. It's still pouring, and it makes me happy, because it looks the same outside as it feels inside. I open my book, The Shadow of the Wind. I lose myself in the city of Barcelona, and suddenly my coffee is on the table in front of me. On the cup, Jake (I presume) has scrawled down a 'Don't mind King, he just doesn't get it. But I do. Don't worry, curls.' and I'm almost touched. Not quite happy, but at least a little less sad. 

The clock strikes eleven. Louis clears his throat and stands up at the door, unties his apron and politely (always so polite, that man) asks all of the people in the cafe for two minutes silence, since it is rememberance day. 

And oh. 

Everything is silent. Dead silent. 

For a moment of cold realization I think "welcome to my world, people." If everyone were like me (God forbid), this cafe would always sound like this. Like nothing. 

For two minutes I feel like they are all intruders in my space. My silence. Mine. The only thing you might catch me being selfish with. It's the only thing no one ever broke into and rummaged around in. One of the few things that isn't marked, or damaged, or cracked. It's just silence after all. But it holds so much. Much more than any words ever will. I'm anxious for two minutes to be up so I can have it back. And shit, I'm wearing a shortsleeve. And shit, how could I actually forget about them? And shit. I really doubt any of these people are remembering the warriors. I am certainly not. Maybe I'm just shallow, though. Maybe *I'm* the worst person in here. Who knows. I'm not a mindreader. Then again, I feel like everyone else is, during these two tortourus moments of silence. 

Finally it's over.  
And finally it doesn't feel like half of the people here are trying to work past my selfdefence-mechanism. Praise whoever it is that we praise.  
Louis thanks us for our concideration and our time, and goes back to work. I know Kenny will be on his lunchbreak in about....three, two, one...right on time. And yes, I do know a lot about these people. Because I observe. Not in a creepy way, of course. I just take notice of things that, to others, might seem like a meaningless detail. As he strolls past me his eyes dart down and fixes on my right arm that I so *stupidly* forgot about. Forgot to cover up. Always so stupid. You fucked up again didn't you? Yes I did. 

It lasts for a second, and then he steels himself, removes his eyes and takes a seat oposite me. I know he's seen them. Great. Now he'll be thinking all kinds of stuff about me. 'Tragic. Lost. Attention-seeking. Needs help, honestly.' 

I shouldn't care. He doesn't know me. I don't know him. But somehow I do care. Because I'm not that person that he must think that I am. I didn' t ask for this. 

He keeps glancing at them throughout his lunch. It does not go past me unnoticed. For a moment I am unrighteously angry. I find myself wanting to speak up for once and tell him exactly how I DID. NOT.ASK.FOR.THIS. bloody stop staring at it! 

But I don't, because I just don't.  
I am one of the silent ones.  
I've always been. 

I let myself look at them too, then.  
I usually don't.  
I pretend they're not there, most of the time. Exept for when I *need* them to be there, of course. 

Looking at them now just has me remembering. It is rememberance day after all.  
Perfect excuse, isn't it? Perfect opportunity to bring back the good old days when everything went to hell. 

The first time we got taken away without knowing shit about where we were going, why, or when we were coming back. And where was he? I was nine. 

The second time when at least *I* knew exactly why we were going, and where he was and that this was going to be hard. I was twelve. 

The first time I truly felt terrified. There was no preperation. No warning. No nothing. Everything was wonderful until it wasn't anymore , and suddenly everything was a hurricane around me. Empty bottles of Gran Corona - at least four - the screaming the screaming the screaming, crying perfect storm, I could show you incredible things (now's not the time Taylor Swift). The horrible accusations. Pack your bags, we're leaving. Leaving where? We're not even in the right city? Just pack, quickly, and go out in the street. Wait for me there. Vomiting. Not from me, from the younger one of us. I didn't think he understood, but he did, and oh. 

Calm, stay calm, it's cool, you've got this, this is normal, this happens to everyone, everyone, no one will hurt you, fists fists fists. 

Run. 

Let go of my arm, don't hold so tight. Pleasepleasepleasestop Finally, silence. 

Get in, uncle says, and he's there, like a lifesaviour. Taking us back, making sure things are in order, telling us to go to sleep, that he's there and he's not leaving, not to worry.

I do sleep. For a while. But something is not right. Something is very, very wrong.

I'm in shock. I know I am. 

And suddenly it's there, I don't know quite what, but it's coming hard and fast, breaking me open, and I have to get out of the bed. Go get a bucket. Or something. 

Nothing comes up for a while. She sists with me through the night. Always there for me. Like I've had to be there for her so many times. It's dawn, the sun is just rising, 

and he walks up the stairs. 

...

And I heave and double over, vomiting into the bucket. It was a blue bucket. Or maybe it was red. 

He doesn't remember.  
He has no clue what he's done.  
Neither do I.  
I can't possibly wrap my head around this for the time being.  
And I still love him. And that's fucking insane. 

Things fix themselves after a couple of weeks, because she's weak and doesn't leave him when she should. I don't forgive him. I can't. But then I do, and he's back and I'm back and my life is finally back. I start ninth grade. 

That's how it goes. Constantly changing, no middleground, no guarantee that the next hour will be like the previous. 

I lose weight. And I'm thrilled about it. I'm always thrilled about that. 

Nothing is wrong about that. 

In fact, nothing is wrong with anything anymore, it's all good. 

Normal. 

This happens to everyone. 

It must. 

Because it does. 

It should. 

Bad, bad, bad, left the juice-packet out again, can't afford that you know, bad. stupid. need to learn. going to learn, right? deserves it. horrible. weak. tragic. can't even get a boyfriend, can you? nobody wants you. I know. I know. You are right. okay, you are. I'm learning. I deserve it. I do. I mean it. I love you. I'm sorry. I won't leave the juice-packet out next time, I know it wastes your money that you work so hard for, you absolutely deserve twelve beers at the end of the day. Promise. Yes-yes-I know you own this house, and the car, and my tv, and my cellphone and my stupid teddybear that I'm getting way too old for, and that without you I'm out on the streets, homeless. I know. I deserve it. 

I'm seventeen when it all properly goes to hell.  
There's no need for words. Just silence. 

I don't go to school for weeks. I blame it on the flu. It wasn't the flu. Red, red, red, red, red, red ,red, and completely not breathing. Fainting in shower. 

Nothing's wrong, this happens to everyone. It has to, right? shrug. It's nothing, I'm going back to school now, thank you very much. 

Then she notices.  
Because of course she does.  
I never told her to not touch me and one day I flinch away and that is that. She knows, because she's smart. So smart. 

THIS IS INSANE. WHY AREN'T YOU SAYING ANYTHING? SAY SOMETHING. THIS IS NOT OKAY. YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME. 

I'm sorry. I know I'm stupid. Disappointment. Need to *learn*. Come on, we're leaving, she says. Where? Just walk with me. I walk with her. She talks. I'm silent. I'm a wall. 

She breaks through me, eventually. Through months and months of coaxing, holding my hand in the dark, in the light, when they tremble so hard my teeth rattle in my skull. Forming a protective cage around me at night when I'm screaming into her shoulder for it to stop and it just won't and this does not happen to everyone. It shouldn't. It doesn't. This is not okay. I don't have to be okay. She knows. She knows. 

She's a monitor. My monitor. I snap time and time again, and she demands I do the same to her that I do to myself but 'NO I wouldn't do that to you', for once she is silent, and I understand *everything*. 

We grow together. Someone is listening to me for once, and I understand more and more, she lets me borrow her reality, and discard the one I once called my own.  
It all changes. 

I never anticipated this. 

I couldn't have. 

But I love it, and this is all her and its *good*. 

Something is good for once, and I trust it is what I think it is, and it *is*. 

I tell them.  
And the one who has always been there, who sat with me through the aftermath of The First Disaster That Was 'Nothing', isn't there anymore.  
She doesn't love me anymoe.  
Because I love a girl.  
I LOVE A GIRL. And I'm not sorry about it.  
Not even when I know I'm stupid, worthless, weak, patheric, I deserve it, need to lear- 

NO I DON'T, this is so so good, I need this, you don't know shit. 

You destroyed me. 

YOU  
burned me to ashes and made me believe it was all my fault. You ruined *everything*. 

Accept that you ruined everything, and she cleaned up your mess. Better than I ever could clean the bathroomfloor to match your standards, I'm well aware. 

I sleep in my own bed, I do. But the rest of the countless hours I am gone. I have to be.  
I can't bear the constant disappointment, I will never get a grandchild-sobsobsob-she'snotthesameanymoreit'sallchanged-sobsobsob. 

Shut up. You have no right. No right in HELL. 

You make this about yourselves like EVERYTHING else, like I did this to HURT you, like I did this because I've been hanging with the wrong crowd and have been getting the idea that this direction is *popular* these days, making it sound like I DID anything at all. I didn't.  
This just happened because it just did.  
Yes- I've hear that you feel sorry for the path that I have "chosen" a million times, Mr.liferuiner.  
I don't need any more of your bullshit. Yes-I know I can't sing for shit, Mr.drunkeveryday.  
I know I've gained like a hundred kilograms since last week,  
I KNOW OKAY. Get out of my head. I don't want you here.  
Take your house, your shiny cars - hell, take both of them - take your money, and my piano 

 

that I know you bought me, 

 

and my microphone, and take my sitcoms and my teddybear, you can even have the whalerus one that I got eighteen years ago, TAKE IT. I'm leaving. Because I have somewhere to go now. 

Does that scare you? 

I can see straight thtough you now that I'm not. Pun so intended. No, not really. But I can. 

For a year I'm just home when I need to be. You blame me for it. 

Your fault assholes. Your fault. Your loss. 

 

It's still hell, though a bit less so. But still hell.  
Still waking up mid-scream, clawing at my skin until I draw blood, trying to shake the feeling of those hands on me, before she's there  
\- always there -  
with wise whispered words in the darkness of a 

cold, small bedroom that I first didn't get the appeal of, but now I do, 

and 'shhh shhh it's allright, I'm here and he's not and you're safe, I got you, and breathe in squares like we practiced'  
and it has me floating just above the surface. Though I'm still in the water. 

 

Deep breaths.  
Two years. Two years of intense and hard work from her side, and mine too, and I'm not drowning anymore. I'm at shore with her, watching the waves. And that's fucking fantastic. 

It ends in September, and god just wake me up when it ends (not the time, Green Day.) This day is grey anyway. It's all grey because it's gone and I'm drowning, and stupid, worthless, gained at least two-hundred kilograms today alone, it's all your fault, everything has always been your fault, bad bad bad bad fists red red red fainting in the shower like the time I fainted in the Amnesty Inernational office in the heart of the city where this mess all began, at least someone caught me before my head hit the tiles then, they shouldn't have, should have just let me, because all your faul, you deserved it, I do deserve it, 

"need to learn" is back and so true, 

I need to learn, I won't leave the juice-packet out this time I promise, don't touch my arms. don't touch my shoulders. Don't touch me. 

Two years to fix it,  
one week to fall back,  
three months to drown all over again. 

I'm crying. I never cry. I know I need to, but it hurts and I just cant't,  
but now I am,  
and Kenny got done with his lunch ten minutes ago but is still sitting opposite me, and for once I haven't noticed at all, not before he stands and puts a coffeestained hand on my shoulder and asks "Why." more like a statement than a question, really. My answer is: 

"It's rememberance day."


End file.
